


Looking for Psalm 23

by Eliyes



Category: X-Men (Comicverse)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-26
Updated: 2013-09-26
Packaged: 2017-12-27 17:22:01
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,570
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/981596
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eliyes/pseuds/Eliyes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>While searching for a prayer for Northstar's funeral, Bobby finds that something of the man still lingers...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Looking for Psalm 23

**Author's Note:**

> This takes place shortly before New X-Men vol. 2 #13, in which Bobby reads Psalm 23 at Jean-Paul's memorial service. (Don't worry, he got better! This is comics, after all.)
> 
> This story was originally posted on Livejournal February 29, 2008, as part of a comm event where readers were challenged to guess the song lyrics that inspired the story. The inspirational quote is in the notes at the end of the fic.

He didn't have a Bible of his own.

Well, _technically_ he did -- his Grandma Drake had left him a huge leatherbound one, bought when he was born and supposed to be presented to him at his confirmation. After the first time it had taken damage because of an attack on the mansion, he had had it repaired and then squirreled it away in his room at his parents' house. It was safer there, but a fat lot of good that did him now.

He wandered the library, missing the days when it looked more like something out of a Harry Potter movie than the high-tech, institutional place it had become. It didn't even use the Dewey Decimal system anymore. It was sheer fluke that he actually found the Religion section in under an hour. After that it was a matter of finding an actual Bible, as opposed to a book about the Bible, or a book about a book about the Bible, or some other religious text entirely. And it had to be a certain _kind_ of Bible, too.

He remembered the days when _he_ was the kid with the most multicultural religious background, and everything outside the different flavours of Christianity and his own Catholic/Jewish upbringing seemed theoretical and exotic. Now the school had representations of more religions than he could readily _name_ , and there seemed to actually _be_ more religions around these days. (He was pretty sure the other day he'd overheard Jubilee explaining to someone that she was a Pastafarian, for example.)

In all honesty, he wasn't even sure Jean-Paul Beaubier had been a Catholic. It wasn't like they'd ever discussed religion.

Yeah. That would have gone well. 'Hey, Northstar, how about that homophobic church?' It wouldn't have been entirely fair, no, but that's probably the direction it would have gone in. He was just as glad they never had that talk.

They hadn't talked much, period. Not about personal things. Bobby was still trying to figure out why this request was in the Will.

Jean-Paul's sister, Jeanne-Marie -- _she_ was Catholic. Or at least, she'd been raised by nuns. He supposed it was possible that her different personalities were different religions, but the nun thing was the only thing he had to go on that he knew for sure.

So. Assuming Catholic, then.

The library didn't really feel like the right place to do this, so he signed out the Bible he'd chosen and wandered.

In a way, he was glad Jean-Paul's Will had specified he read a prayer; he couldn't have done a full-on eulogy. If only it had told him which _one_ \-- but no, that was up to him. Vague memories of his grandmother's funeral had him thinking he could find something in the Psalms. He hoped he wasn't misremembering, but he'd been very young when she'd passed away. He mostly remembered playing tag with is cousins at the wake, a couple of the older aunties persistently calling him "Georgie" (something he only understood years later).

His feet carried him through the hallways as he unconsciously retraced routes Jean-Paul had taken, like snowflakes caught in the current of air left by the man's passage. He found himself at Jean-Paul's office, and let himself in.

So few personal effects had found their way to this room to begin with that it was hard to tell if anyone had been through, yet, to collect his things. Somehow he didn't think so; the place didn't feel empty. In fact, it felt... expectant. Like Jean-Paul could come through that door any second to discover Bobby invading his space, trailing his fingers over the desk.

He couldn't bring himself to sit in Jean-Paul's chair. He folded himself down into the corner instead, opening the Bible with his lap as a desk. More than once, as he flipped through, trying to find what he wanted, he couldn't help but look up. That sense of Jean-Paul's nearness kept pressing in on him.

It was silly; he was just building phantoms in his own mind out of associations with the office.

Wasn't he?

Ghosts weren't outside the realm of the possible, not for the X-Men. But surely Jean-Paul, if he were going to hang around the school at all instead of someplace in Canada -- surely he'd haunt the place of his death. The tree.

Maybe they should cut it down. Not in case of ghosts, but because of the claw marks, the stain -- had anyone even washed away the blood stain yet? -- that would be a reminder. 'Here's where one of us died,' they would say.

'Here's where he was killed by one of our own.'

Yeah, Jean-Paul had a reason to haunt. Logan and he had been buddies since way back. Murder, betrayal: classic reasons for a soul to be restless. If his skin could still prickle, these thoughts would have caused it. Bobby looked up and glanced around.

"You should move on," he said to the empty room. He didn't feel anything like a response, but that sense of Jean-Paul's presence persisted.

Maybe this hadn't been such a great idea. He'd just wanted to... Actually, he wasn't sure _what_ he wanted. He was really beginning to feel like an intruder.

Setting the Bible aside, Bobby rubbed his palms over his knees and tried to explain himself.

"I came here because ...I was hoping it would help. I don't know what -- I don't know _why_ you wanted me to read for you. I don't know what I could possibly say that could express --"

He released a gusty sigh and pushed himself to his feet. He didn't pace, exactly, but wandered the room, hoping to run into the words. Usually he didn't have trouble with words. He had the gift of gab, as his father would say, but this -- this was important, and perplexing.

He stopped in front of the window, pressed his hand against the glass and watched frost crawl over the pane. It formed a shape, an outline like someone standing behind him dully reflected.

Better.

"You weren't with us all that long, but... long enough. I guess I liked you. I don't know why we didn't really become friends. Clash of personalities, maybe." He leaned forward and rested his forehead on the glass. "The truth is, you were kind of a jerk. But you were also a really _good_ person, y'know? As much as you complained at first about your talents being wasted teaching, kids _mattered_ to you. What you did with Peter -- you were a real hero."

He sighed, and waved a hand.

"The thing is, _anyone_ could say that! It's not a big secret, it's pretty much surface layer stuff. There are so many people who've _gotta_ know you better, so why _me?_ I don't -- I'm not sure I'm up to the job. I'm not sure what you expect."

There was, of course, no response. Bobby closed his eyes and just leaned there for a long moment. He couldn't think of anything more to say -- and really, that was his _point_. Sighing again, he ran his hand over the window, blotting out the image of Jean-Paul. He scraped the frost from the glass with the edge of his hand, sharpened to the purpose, and then opened the window to brush it outside. Wouldn't do to have someone come in and find it melted all over the windowsill; they might mistake it for tears.

The night blew in a refreshing, damp breeze, so Bobby left the window open and went back to the Bible. He hadn't even known he needed to get anything out of his system, but now that he'd done it it was much easier to find what he'd been looking for. He knew it as soon as he saw it.

"Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death," he murmured, "I will fear no evil: for thou art with me."

The words were comfortingly familiar -- and best of all, it was fairly short. Sure, it was uncharacteristic of him to not want to hog the spotlight, but this... Even more than he wondered why Jean-Paul had put it in his Last Will and Testament that Bobby Drake read a prayer at his funeral, he was afraid that the people who really _had_ been Jean-Paul's friends would see him as some kind of impostor.

He made note of the page number, closed the book, and stood. Only as he was reaching to close the window did he notice -- Jean-Paul _wasn't_ with him anymore, or at least, his presence had faded. For an instant, he entertained wild notions of ghosts that haunted until the living fulfilled funereal duties, or maybe that Jean-Paul's spirit had needed the window opened so it could fly away --

And then it hit him. It was so _obvious_ that he had to laugh at himself. It hadn't been a ghost making Bobby think Jean-Paul was nearby, but the lingering scent of that expensive cologne he wore. It had been faint enough that he hadn't consciously noticed it, and now that the fresh air had come in, it was fainter still. Grinning, he closed and locked the window. Whatever scent was left could stay and play with the mind of whoever next came in here.

But he paused with his hand on the doorknob, and looked around the room one last time.

"Goodbye, Jean-Paul," he said softly.

Just in case.

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by the following song lyric:
> 
>  
> 
> _You can still see the sight_  
>  _On a winter's night_  
>  _Of his wake in the light of the moon_  
>  _When the wind turns right_  
>  _If you don't take fright_  
>  _You can smell that French perfume_
> 
>  
> 
>  -- Great Big Sea, "French Perfume"


End file.
